The Fortunate Ones
Page 8
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Most of the veteran employees drink through their entire shift, so I don’t feel bad hopping down and slinking around the bar to pour myself something. There’s a ton of wine, but none of the bottles are open, so instead I settle for a Jack and Coke, heavy on the Coke. It’s not my usual, but I enjoy the slight burn of acid in the back of my throat. It distracts me from the fact that James is watching me walk around the bar and reclaim my seat. Jack and James.
I take another sip and then brave a glance at him. He looks amused…by me. How nice. I’ve always wanted to amuse a man as hot as him. Not.
“Now what are we celebrating?” I ask again, trying to keep the topic of conversation away from anything too personal.
“My company just launched a new product.”
“Oh yeah?” I’d heard he owned his own company. “What’s the product?”
“A smart watch.”
“Sounds fancy. What does this glorified pedometer do? Track how many steps housewives take between the wine aisle at Target and their kid’s soccer practice?”
I’m caught off guard by my own boldness, but if I’m truly off the clock, I’m no longer being paid to put up a subservient veneer.
“Not quite. It’s an early detection system for heart attacks.”
My glass pauses on the way to my mouth. “What? How?”
“It’ll bore you.”
“Try me.”
He sighs and sets his tumbler down. “Basically, a high-risk patient wears it around their wrist and the device’s biosensors keep track of temperature, oxygen saturation, blood pressure, and respiratory rates.”
“Sounds fancy,” I say.
“All of that is basic. The real breakthrough is our proprietary software. It integrates these previously isolated data points within predictive algorithms.”
He sees my raised eyebrow and decides to bring it down a notch.
“In 99% of the trial cases, it warned people about a myocardial infarction 10 minutes before it actually happened.”
“Wow, okay. So I pay you for a watch that beeps and tells me I’m going to die?”
He looks down and laughs, shaking his head. “When it detects an oncoming attack, it dispenses a low dose of aspirin, dispatches an ambulance to your location, and calls your emergency contact.”
I’m suddenly aware that I’ve started biting my lower lip. There’s something about a man talking passionately about something. When I realize what I’m doing, I release it and reach for my drink. “I feel bad for calling it a glorified pedometer.”
He laughs. “Well to be fair, it does track a user’s steps too. I think most smart watches do these days.”
I smile. “How long have you been working on it?”
“Five years.”
“Five years?! And you’re celebrating here?”
I sweep my hand across the dining room. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but if I’d spent five years working on something that SAVES PEOPLE’S LIVES, I’d celebrate anywhere but here. Disneyland, maybe.
“All day I’ve been pulled in different directions. Interviews, luncheons, a launch party…it feels good to sit here.” Maybe he can tell I’m not convinced, because he continues, “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. In a way, it’s a second home for me.”
That’s surprising to hear. Most of the members who are legacies tend to have that old money stench to them—lazy, entitled, and more demanding than most. James Ashwood doesn’t carry the stench. In fact, the man smells like an amalgam of all those sexy-sounding cologne things: spice and pine and sandalwood. What the hell is sandalwood anyway?
“How long ago was that? Were you here before they moved the golf course?” I ask.
“Are you just trying to figure out my age?”
Guilty.
I blush. “Maybe.”
“I’m 36.”
“Huh.”
For some reason, I’m disappointed.
“How old did you think I was?”
“Just…younger.”
I take another sip of my Jack and Coke. Soon I’m going to need a refill, or maybe by then James will be ready to leave.
“How old are you, Brooke?”
I still, somehow shocked that he knows my name. Did Brian say it earlier? I can’t remember.
I slide my gaze to him. He’s watching me with those eyes, a gaze that can cut straight through me. “I’m 25.”
“25,” he repeats with a nod before taking a sip of his drink.
“11 years.”
“What?”
“That’s the gap between us.”
He smirks. “Am I allowed to have a drink with a woman 11 years younger than me?”
He sounds amused again. My cheeks are so red they might stay that way permanently, but I refuse to be anything other than cool and collected around James.
I shrug. “It’s just a drink, right? I didn’t mean to insinuate that we’re—”
He cuts me off. “You didn’t. Anyway, you told me I wasn’t your type earlier, remember?”
I nearly choke. “Well, my type has been pretty hit-and-miss lately.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
There’s an authoritative edge to his tone when he asks that question—or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
“Soon to be ex, actually.”
“Poor guy.”
He doesn’t sound the least bit empathetic.
“Maybe he deserves it,” I point out.
“Maybe.”
I look away and change the subject. “So, you make heart attack watches…is that what you used to tell people you wanted to do when you grew up?”
He sighs like my question just weighed him down. I glance back to find him staring down at his empty glass.
“It’s just one part of my company…a means to an end.”
“For what?”
He glances up at me from beneath his brows. “I started BioWear when I graduated from college, when I was…well, a bit more idealistic. I wanted to help people who really needed it, not just rich Americans. I wanted to combat neglected tropical diseases.”
I laugh. “Okay, turn around—let me see if there’s a cape hanging off that suit.”
He doesn’t laugh with me. “I’m boring you. Let’s talk about something else.”
I’ve offended him.
I reach out and touch his shoulder. It’s an intimate act between friends, but we aren’t friends—we hardly know each other. We both freeze, and maybe I’ve gone too far, presumed too much. I yank my hand away and face the bar. It’s an awkward couple of seconds, made worse by the fact that he doesn’t rush to speak first.
“You can tell me about it if you want,” I offer quietly. “I’d like to know more.”
He doesn’t continue right away. He’s like a turtle coming out of his shell. Maybe he doesn’t open up to many people like this, or maybe he thinks I really am bored, but in truth, this man could read off his junk mail folder and I’d be listening with bated breath.
“During my senior year of college, I took a global health seminar as a blow-off class. The professor didn’t give tests, everyone knew it, so twice a week, I sat in the back row, bored and distracted while most of my friends didn’t even bother showing up. I don’t remember what most of the semester focused on, but one day, we had a guest lecturer, a project coordinator for Doctors Without Borders. She stood at the front of the class and flipped through a quick PowerPoint. Each slide presented some form of technology that could drastically impact the lives of people in third world countries—water filtration systems, solar panels, that sort of thing. At the end of it, she challenged us to be the next wave of inventors.”
“And you listened.”
He meets my gaze. “I guess so.”
“So what’s your focus?”
He answers quickly. “Mosquitos.”
“Mosquitos?”
“They’re the number one carrier of tropical diseases like malaria.”
I’ve listened to enough NPR news hours to realize that’s true, but short of eradicating the whole species, there’s not much that can be done. Unless…
I take another sip and then brave a glance at him. He looks amused…by me. How nice. I’ve always wanted to amuse a man as hot as him. Not.
“Now what are we celebrating?” I ask again, trying to keep the topic of conversation away from anything too personal.
“My company just launched a new product.”
“Oh yeah?” I’d heard he owned his own company. “What’s the product?”
“A smart watch.”
“Sounds fancy. What does this glorified pedometer do? Track how many steps housewives take between the wine aisle at Target and their kid’s soccer practice?”
I’m caught off guard by my own boldness, but if I’m truly off the clock, I’m no longer being paid to put up a subservient veneer.
“Not quite. It’s an early detection system for heart attacks.”
My glass pauses on the way to my mouth. “What? How?”
“It’ll bore you.”
“Try me.”
He sighs and sets his tumbler down. “Basically, a high-risk patient wears it around their wrist and the device’s biosensors keep track of temperature, oxygen saturation, blood pressure, and respiratory rates.”
“Sounds fancy,” I say.
“All of that is basic. The real breakthrough is our proprietary software. It integrates these previously isolated data points within predictive algorithms.”
He sees my raised eyebrow and decides to bring it down a notch.
“In 99% of the trial cases, it warned people about a myocardial infarction 10 minutes before it actually happened.”
“Wow, okay. So I pay you for a watch that beeps and tells me I’m going to die?”
He looks down and laughs, shaking his head. “When it detects an oncoming attack, it dispenses a low dose of aspirin, dispatches an ambulance to your location, and calls your emergency contact.”
I’m suddenly aware that I’ve started biting my lower lip. There’s something about a man talking passionately about something. When I realize what I’m doing, I release it and reach for my drink. “I feel bad for calling it a glorified pedometer.”
He laughs. “Well to be fair, it does track a user’s steps too. I think most smart watches do these days.”
I smile. “How long have you been working on it?”
“Five years.”
“Five years?! And you’re celebrating here?”
I sweep my hand across the dining room. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but if I’d spent five years working on something that SAVES PEOPLE’S LIVES, I’d celebrate anywhere but here. Disneyland, maybe.
“All day I’ve been pulled in different directions. Interviews, luncheons, a launch party…it feels good to sit here.” Maybe he can tell I’m not convinced, because he continues, “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. In a way, it’s a second home for me.”
That’s surprising to hear. Most of the members who are legacies tend to have that old money stench to them—lazy, entitled, and more demanding than most. James Ashwood doesn’t carry the stench. In fact, the man smells like an amalgam of all those sexy-sounding cologne things: spice and pine and sandalwood. What the hell is sandalwood anyway?
“How long ago was that? Were you here before they moved the golf course?” I ask.
“Are you just trying to figure out my age?”
Guilty.
I blush. “Maybe.”
“I’m 36.”
“Huh.”
For some reason, I’m disappointed.
“How old did you think I was?”
“Just…younger.”
I take another sip of my Jack and Coke. Soon I’m going to need a refill, or maybe by then James will be ready to leave.
“How old are you, Brooke?”
I still, somehow shocked that he knows my name. Did Brian say it earlier? I can’t remember.
I slide my gaze to him. He’s watching me with those eyes, a gaze that can cut straight through me. “I’m 25.”
“25,” he repeats with a nod before taking a sip of his drink.
“11 years.”
“What?”
“That’s the gap between us.”
He smirks. “Am I allowed to have a drink with a woman 11 years younger than me?”
He sounds amused again. My cheeks are so red they might stay that way permanently, but I refuse to be anything other than cool and collected around James.
I shrug. “It’s just a drink, right? I didn’t mean to insinuate that we’re—”
He cuts me off. “You didn’t. Anyway, you told me I wasn’t your type earlier, remember?”
I nearly choke. “Well, my type has been pretty hit-and-miss lately.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
There’s an authoritative edge to his tone when he asks that question—or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
“Soon to be ex, actually.”
“Poor guy.”
He doesn’t sound the least bit empathetic.
“Maybe he deserves it,” I point out.
“Maybe.”
I look away and change the subject. “So, you make heart attack watches…is that what you used to tell people you wanted to do when you grew up?”
He sighs like my question just weighed him down. I glance back to find him staring down at his empty glass.
“It’s just one part of my company…a means to an end.”
“For what?”
He glances up at me from beneath his brows. “I started BioWear when I graduated from college, when I was…well, a bit more idealistic. I wanted to help people who really needed it, not just rich Americans. I wanted to combat neglected tropical diseases.”
I laugh. “Okay, turn around—let me see if there’s a cape hanging off that suit.”
He doesn’t laugh with me. “I’m boring you. Let’s talk about something else.”
I’ve offended him.
I reach out and touch his shoulder. It’s an intimate act between friends, but we aren’t friends—we hardly know each other. We both freeze, and maybe I’ve gone too far, presumed too much. I yank my hand away and face the bar. It’s an awkward couple of seconds, made worse by the fact that he doesn’t rush to speak first.
“You can tell me about it if you want,” I offer quietly. “I’d like to know more.”
He doesn’t continue right away. He’s like a turtle coming out of his shell. Maybe he doesn’t open up to many people like this, or maybe he thinks I really am bored, but in truth, this man could read off his junk mail folder and I’d be listening with bated breath.
“During my senior year of college, I took a global health seminar as a blow-off class. The professor didn’t give tests, everyone knew it, so twice a week, I sat in the back row, bored and distracted while most of my friends didn’t even bother showing up. I don’t remember what most of the semester focused on, but one day, we had a guest lecturer, a project coordinator for Doctors Without Borders. She stood at the front of the class and flipped through a quick PowerPoint. Each slide presented some form of technology that could drastically impact the lives of people in third world countries—water filtration systems, solar panels, that sort of thing. At the end of it, she challenged us to be the next wave of inventors.”
“And you listened.”
He meets my gaze. “I guess so.”
“So what’s your focus?”
He answers quickly. “Mosquitos.”
“Mosquitos?”
“They’re the number one carrier of tropical diseases like malaria.”
I’ve listened to enough NPR news hours to realize that’s true, but short of eradicating the whole species, there’s not much that can be done. Unless…
